The Snowflake Collection
by Ashtrees
Summary: Winter/Christmas related one-shots named after the 35 types of snowflakes. What will start out as one or two odd flakes will gradually build into a snowblizzard. The latest chapter: Mrs Hudson and Sherlock bake a Christmas cake!
1. Simple Prisms

_Hello, everyone. This will be a series of winter and Christmas-centric one-shots named after the 35 different types of snowflake. I intend to shamelessly cover every cliché possible I.e. Christmas Carol, It's A Wonderful Life, sledging, etc. Updates will start slow, becoming more frequent, less winter-centric and more Christmas related as we get nearer to Dec 25__th__, thus being a few flakes turning into a snow blizzard. I also plan to keep going into January because it is a miserable month. I am open to prompts, but be warned! I am horrifically unreliable, so I won't make any promises just in case. _

_Thank you for reading. _

_I don't own Sherlock_

**Simple Prisms: **

**Snowflake Watching**

In the courtyard at the back of 221 B, Sherlock had set up a table with a sheet of black velvet stretched across its surface and stapled it into place.

John was assisting Mrs Hudson down the step just as the sleet began to thicken up into true snowflakes.

"What are you boys up to?" Mrs Hudson tutted good naturedly as John led her to the table. "I shouldn't be standing outside with my hip being as bad as it is."

"You'll enjoy it, I promise," John assured her.

"But, what are we doing?"

"Snowflake watching," Sherlock said, staring fixedly at the fat snowflakes which were starting to land on the velvet before melting away.

"Oh." Mrs Hudson sounded disappointed. She joined Sherlock in watching the flakes settle on the table. After a minute she was bored and cold. "Well, it's very pretty, Sherlock, but can't we watch the snow indoors? I can make us all a nice cup of tea."

"That's not the point," Sherlock replied as he pressed his magnifying-glass into her hands. "You have to be quick."

"Oh," Mrs Hudson said again, a little uncertain as she slid open the glass and bent down over the table to view a single snowflake.

"I have the camera too," John added. "Using the zoom we should get some good pictures."

Mrs Hudson took in a breath. It was beautiful. Through the lens she could make out the snowflake's six arms with its dendrites poking out like a tiny starfish, it looked almost perfectly symmetrical.

"At the heart of every single snow crystal is a single speck of dust," Sherlock was saying. "So small that my microscope is not powerful enough to see it. The way a snowflake forms is dependent on the microenvironment around it. We can tell a lot about that environment just by looking at the shape and size of a snowflake. The best snowflakes form between temperature of 10 and 15 degrees Celsius."

"Have you finished _reciting_?" John teased, elbowing him out of the way so that he could take a photo of two flakes that had stuck together on the corner of the table. "I can see you holding onto your phone in your pocket, you know. Anyone can quickly look something up on their phone and pretend to be clever."

Sherlock huffed loudly, folding his arms.

"Fine," he muttered. "I was just trying to provide a little scientific narrative to the moment."

"I'm not sure the _moment_ needs the sound of your voice rattling on."

"Well, I was interested," Mrs Hudson interrupted before the argument between her two "boys" could continue. "They're amazing! It's incredible that nature could create something so….patterned, _deliberate._ They look like something one of those mathematical artists might have sat down and drawn with a ruler and protractor. Thank you, both of you."

John continued to take pictures, Sherlock continued his lecture and Mrs Hudson felt very happy.


	2. Hexagonal Plates

_I had a different chapter I wanted to upload, but half of it hadn't saved, so it's this one instead, which was going to be saved closer to Christmas. _

_I own neither Sherlock nor toe socks. But, if I had to choose I would have toe socks. _

_Thank you for reading, reviewing and favouriting._

**Hexagonal Plates: The Snowman**

_I remember that winter because it brought the heaviest snow I had ever seen. The snow had fallen steadily all night long, and in the morning I awoke in a room filled with light and silence. The whole world seemed to be held in a dream-like stillness and it was a magical day and it was on that day I made the Snowman.*_

John awoke in a warm room filled with light so bright it might have been summer already. But, it wasn't summer and the light was too white for it to be sunshine. He jumped out of bed and ran to the window, flinging the curtains wide open.

The outside world was blanketed with the most perfect snow Mother Nature could have possibly made.

John skipped breakfast and went straight outside and spent the day building a snowman. It rivalled the height of his father and John dressed it with an old chequered scarf and a battered hat. He used two lumps of coal for the eyes, and three as buttons. The mouth he drew on with his finger. A tangerine was squashed into the snow to represent a round nose.

That night John awoke unexpectedly at midnight. He looked out of his window and saw his snowman waving at him.

Dashing outside John was astounded to discover that his snowman had not only come to life, and appeared to know him, but that he could fly too.

With John tucked safely under his arm, the snowman flew over the ocean where they saw a whale rising to the surface, spurting water though its blowhole. They flew over houses where children were staying awake to watch for Santa. John saw things he had never seen in person before: icebergs and penguins, mountains covered in fir trees and the Northern Lights shining in all their bright-coloured glory.

Then the snowman landed on the edge of a forbidding looking dark wood. John clung onto his snowman's arm as they walked past the trees. It seemed to last forever, but then John could see more coloured lights sparkling in the sky.

They emerged out of the wood and entered a clearing. John's eyes widened.

The clearing was filled with at least twenty different snowmen and snowwomen, of all different heights, shapes and dressed in a colourful array of hats, bonnets, dresses, trousers and John even spotted one that was proudly sporting a kilt.

They smiled when they spotted John and his snowman, ushering them further into the clearing which had been decorated for a party - vibrant streamers were hung from the tree branches, criss-crossing one another, with shining coloured lamps hanging at strategic points in order to send their spheres of red, green, pink, blue, purple and orange lights, shining as far as possible across the snow.

They showed John to a piano near to the tables of party food. John was a little taken aback to see three children there - two boys and a girl.

The girl smiled happily at John and looked down at her arms. Cradled in them was a sleeping kitten, a kitten which was made of snow. John drew in a breath, impressed by the girl's imagination that she thought to make an animal out of snow rather than just a person.

The boy standing next to the girl rolled his eyes, as if he were highly unimpressed by John's amazement of the snow-kitten. He was shorter than the second boy and looked the same age as John and the girl. He had unruly, curly black hair and sharp eyes. He glared at John, undoing any sweetness that the rest of his appearance gave him. John looked around for the boy's snow creation, wondering if he had made an animal or a person, but he couldn't spot anything.

The curly haired boy smirked, but this was stopped by a sharp tap in his ribs from the second boy. This boy was the eldest of the trio and looked a little like the curly-haired boy, but slightly more bored.

Suddenly, the curly-haired boy took hold of John's wrist and dragged him impatiently away from the group. Reluctantly, John followed, unsure of where they were going to.

A little way into the wood was a motorcycle made out of snow and child size. The boy grinning proudly, climbed on the front and patted the space behind him.

John raised his eyebrows, but the boy nodded eagerly, patting the seat again.

Slowly, John climbed onto the seat, and with no where else to hold on, wrapped his arms around the skinny's boy waist.

Although, John had been expecting it he still felt a little amazed when the snow-bike suddenly shot forward, its wheels spinning silently.

The boy lent forward on the handles pushing the motorbike faster and then they were deep into the wood, darting in between the trees so speedily John was worried that the boy's reactions would not be fast enough. A red vixen darted ahead of them before bolting behind a tree, an owl screeched its protests at being disturbed. Then they came out into the open where a mare raced them across the snow.

But, then the bike suddenly veered sharply to the left and the boy brought it to a juddering halt. John opened his eyes to see why the boy had so suddenly changed direction.

John's snowman, along with the older boy and his snowman, were standing in the field having flown there, where the boy would have driven his snow bike, and all three didn't look too happy.

The older boy tapped his wristwatch. The curly haired boy rolled his eyes again. He went to lean forward on the bike once more, but the older boy held onto the handle shaking his head.

Scowling the curly haired boy jumped off his bike into the snow, the impact of his feet making a sound like a child's spade being thrust into the wet sand on a beach. He stomped off back towards the wood with the snow bike rolling slowly in time with him It almost seemed sad John thought.

A light touch on his elbow and he saw that his snowman was pointing back towards the wood, where the girl and the other snow people were waiting on the other side. Feeling a little ashamed that he had disappeared from the party John followed the others.

When John reached the clearing he found the girl and her snow-kitten waiting with a cake for him.

There was a low thump as the curly-haired boy stood on top of the piano. No one stopped him and John wandered what he was up to. But then the older boy sat down at the piano, lifting the lid. The curly-haired boy placed a red violin under his chin and together they started playing a happy dance piece.

As soon as they started playing the snowpeople began to dance, pulling the girl and John into their circle.

The music ended as suddenly as it had started, signalling the end of the party.

John shivered He hadn't felt cold before, but now as the snowpeople began to fly away he felt chilled. It suddenly seemed darker in the clearing - the lights were fading out.

The curly-haired boy climbed back on his snow-motorbike with the girl sitting behind him, her snow-kitten clinging to her lap. The older boy held onto his snowman's arm.

They waved their goodbyes to John and his snowman before they took off into the night so that they could reach their homes by the time the Christmas dawn came.

Then it was John and his snowman's turn to fly home.

The snow inevitably melted a few days later, but John found that whenever it snowed and he was able to recreate his snowman before midnight on Christmas Eve, his snowman would return to life and take John back to the snowpeople's party.

The other children were always waiting for him, apart from the older boy who never came back again. Too old, his curly-haired brother explained. One year Father Christmas also attended the party with presents for everyone. A blue scarf for Sherlock, a cardigan for Molly and a jumper for John.

The year John turned twelve there was a new girl in the clearing and John instinctively knew that he two was now too old to go back again after that.

* Intro from the TV adaptation. As the author, Raymond Briggs did the honours originally, then it was changed to David Bowie.


	3. Stellar Plates

**Stellar Plates**

It started with Sherlock's stomach cramping, but it was light enough for him to ignore throughout the out the day as he ran all over London. It was accompanied by a headache, but for the sake of the case, Sherlock completely disregarded it.

But, it was while he was heading home that evening, that he suddenly developed more severe symptoms.

He had been questioning Angelo about one of his old acquaintances and had requested that the restaurant owner go visit his old acquaintance on Sherlock's behalf - Angelo would more likely be trusted than a stranger. With that lead followed up Sherlock walked down the street, back towards Baker Street where he had some serious thinking to do, whilst waiting for Angelo's answers.

It was still the afternoon, but it was dark and the wind was bitter and strong. Sherlock, however, was beginning to feel uncomfortably warm and his stomach was churning.

He began to heave, but could hold it back no longer, and vomited against the nearest wall. It was followed by a second wave.

Sherlock felt disgusted. The stench alone was enough to send him heaving again. By the time he had finished the sweat was rolling down his back and his legs were shaking so badly that he had to inch his way along the wall to hold himself up.

He could see the 221's door just a few feet away, but he felt so hot, dizzy, shaky and achy that it seemed to be miles away, or perhaps his eyes were playing tricks on him.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock closed his eyes. There was no way that he wanted Lestrade to see him like this.

"What's the matter? You look like hell!"

Sherlock opened his eyes wearily. Lestrade looked concerned, but Sherlock wanted none of his pity.

"What are you doing here, Inspector?" he asked.

"Looking for you. Obviously." Lestrade nodded back to where his car was parked on the curb in front of 221. "But, with all the lights off I assumed you were out. Then I spotted you. You're really sick," he added, trying to sound sympathetic.

Sherlock's stomach gave another startling clench as he heard the word "sick". He couldn't suppress a groan, as he placed a hand over his stomach.

"Let's get you inside," said Lestrade, practically pushing Sherlock towards the front door. He fished inside Sherlock's pockets until he found the house keys.

Lestrade had to help Sherlock up the stairs, who was showing signs of really needing both the toilet and his bed. Too bad he couldn't be in two places at once.

While Sherlock was in the toilet, Lestrade brought the washing-up bowl from the kitchen to Sherlock's bedroom, placing it on the floor beside Sherlock's bed. He also placed a bottle of water on the bedside table, along with a tray of paracetamol.

Ten minutes later, Sherlock ambled from the bathroom into his bedroom, wrapped in just a towel and his hair damp. He collapsed onto his bed.

"I doubt a shower will have done you any good," said Lestrade, folding his arms.

"I feel much fresher," Sherlock mumbled into his pillow. "Now, go away, Lestrade. You don't want to catch this."

"Alright," Lestrade relented, unfolding his arms. "Will you be okay by yourself? When will John be back?"

"Soon," Sherlock mumbled. "Tomorrow I'll drop by the Yard -"

"No, you won't," Lestrade interrupted. "If you've got that Winter Vomiting bug, then you're in for a rough couple of nights. It'll be vomit and diarrhoea from now until dawn!"

Sherlock suddenly sat up and dashed back into the bathroom.

"Maybe I'll stick around until John gets home," Lestrade said to himself.

000000000

Two days later and Sherlock was completely exhausted by his illness. Lestrade had been right - they had been spent by alternating between throwing up into the kitchen bowl and dashing to the bathroom when he needed desperately to use the toilet. In between those episodes John had encouraged him to stay hydrated as best he could.

At least that morning his stomach was no longer cramping.

John came in and placed the back of his hand against Sherlock's forehead.

"You feel as if your fever's gone," he said. "You must be on the mend. Do you want to get up for a little while today?"

"No," Sherlock croaked. "I just want to sleep."

John smiled. "That's the first time I've heard you say that."

But, sleep had to wait until he had drank the juice John had brought him, showered and changed his bed sheets and pyjamas for fresh ones. He was shattered by the time he had fallen back into his clean bed, but it was worth it just to smell the clean sheets and feel so much more hygienic than he had the past two days.

He gazed sleepily out of his window just in time to see the snow beginning to fall.

He fell asleep not long after that.

_A/N: Thank you for reading!_


	4. Sectored Plates

**Sectored Plates**

Sherlock hadn't a case in two weeks and was now bored to the point of spending each day lying on the sofa, staring blankly at the ceiling.

John had gone out to work and had asked Mrs Hudson to keep an eye on him. Before he had left John had bullied Sherlock in and out of the shower, but there was only so much nagging John could bare to do. He was always worried that Sherlock would come to resent him for constantly pushing him into doing things he didn't feel like doing - eating, sleeping and all things connected with personal hygiene. In the end John was relieved to give someone else the chance to try to lift Sherlock's mood and Mrs Hudson was usually good at that.

After John had left Mrs Hudson wondered what she could possibly do with Sherlock. He was so unusually vacant, so still. If she could at least get him off that sofa for a few hours then she would consider herself to have done a job well done. She felt that it was important to keep Sherlock active as possible during these slumps rather than allow him to lie on the sofa all day.

She happened to glance at the digital clock on the kitchen wall and saw that it also displayed the month: October. Mrs Hudson always baked her Christmas cake in October to allow it time to mature before the 25th December.

At first Mrs Hudson dismissed the idea that Sherlock would like to bake a cake with her, but then she thought: why not? She had always enjoyed baking. There was something very therapeutic and calming about it. And if Sherlock was really that bored and fed-up then he should be willing to try anything.

She went back down the stairs to her kitchen and placed all the ingredients into a carrier bag and tucked her cookbook under her arm, before taking it all back upstairs again.

She then purposely went back through the living room, rather than through the connecting door to the kitchen, rustling the plastic bag, in the hope that she would rouse Sherlock's attention. In her peripheral vision she spotted him turning his head slightly, but then he slumped back down on the sofa.

"Do you know what I am going to bake?" she asked.

There was a pause. "Christmas cake."

"How can you tell?"

"I can smell the different ingredients." Each word Sherlock uttered sounded as if he were having to push them out of a very deep well, slowly, deliberately and with much effort.

Mrs Hudson was impressed. "You're amazing!" she cooed.

Sherlock grunted.

"Will you help me?" she asked.

There was another long pause. "Do I have to?" the detective sighed heavily.

"Yes," said Mrs Hudson, nodding. She had decided then not to give him a choice. "The mixture becomes very stiff and heavy. It needs a strong arm to stir it. Come on."

She took hold of his cold hand and gently tugged Sherlock to his feet. He allowed himself to be led to the kitchen table where he immediately sat down on the stool, flopping forward on the table, resting his head on his arms.

Mrs Hudson worked around him, clearing the table of its scientific apparatus and carefully disinfecting it, telling Sherlock to sit up straight so that she could clean the whole surface.

She then placed the cook book open in front of him and gave him a little prod.

"Off you go then," she said, quietly.

Sherlock sighed again, but pulled the book towards himself and began to read the recipe.

As Mrs Hudson hoped he would Sherlock soon began to focus intensely on the activity with a chemist's accuracy, measuring out the ingredients exactly, while Mrs Hudson fetched the scales, bowls and spoons for him. She then sat down and watched, always fascinated to see him concentrating so completely that he lost all awareness of what was going on around him and how much time was passing.

She was a little disappointed when Sherlock lost interest. He had finished mixing it all together into a stiff brown, lumpy paste. But, then he pushed the bowl away from himself, flopping forward onto the table again. Wordlessly, Mrs Hudson took over, scraping it into a large baking tin lined with brown cooking paper.

It was a struggle to place the heavy tin in the oven, but somehow she managed it.

"It'll need three hours in there," she said, straitening up and wincing slightly.

Sherlock merely grunted in reply and ambled into the living room, falling back onto the sofa and curling up.

While Sherlock napped on the sofa Mrs Hudson washed up. Three hours later she took the firm fruit cake out of the oven and placed it onto a waiting cooling rack.

"It smells lovely, Sherlock!" she called. "Do you want to see?"

But, she received no reply.

Mrs Hudson spent the rest of the day cleaning the flat and trying to engage Sherlock in conversation. She found she was fortunate to receive one word answers.

John came home early that afternoon, looking worn-out himself.

"Oh, you've been busy," he said, looking at the cake in the kitchen.

"We certainly have." Mrs Hudson clicked on the kettle. "Tea?"

John nodded.

"Has Sherlock been okay?" he asked, lowering his voice.

"Not too bad. Still quite down in the dumps, though. He made the Christmas cake all by himself."

John raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything. He went out into the living room where Mrs Hudson could hear him talking softly to Sherlock, asking how he had been.

Mrs Hudson spent the evening with Sherlock and John. The time passed quietly as they watched the TV together. She even managed to persuade Sherlock to eat a small bowl of tomato soup.

Later on that night, John glanced back at the sofa. "Sherlock's asleep," he said, quietly. "Thank goodness. I can't take much more of his misery."

"John," Mrs Hudson scolded. "He can't help it."

"Sorry. I know he can't," John mumbled, rubbing his eyes. "I just feel frustrated that I can't seem to do anything for him."

"You do enough just by being his friend. Not many people have stuck by him like you have."

John snorted. He looked back at Sherlock.

"Should I wake him up?" he mused, more to himself than Mrs Hudson. "See if I can persuade him to brush his teeth and go to bed?"

"Why not leave him be for tonight? He looks peaceful enough."

"I know, I know," John said, as he ran a hand through his hair. "But, then he'll expect to be allowed to do this every night and -" he suddenly broke off.

"What's the matter?"

"I don't like being his carer. I don't like having to look after him. He's my best friend and I can't stand him being like this. He's not Sherlock."

Mrs Hudson pulled John into a hug.

"Don't you start becoming depressed, John," she whispered, stroking his hair. "I can't cope with both my boys being miserable."

"Sorry," John mumbled, voice muffled by her shoulder.

"Don't be. He's hard work. We both know that. Now, you can go to bed, John, and we'll let Sherlock have a good night's sleep on the sofa, okay?"

"Okay." John slowly pulled away and reluctantly disappeared up the stairs to his room.

Mrs Hudson gathered up the tartan blanket off the back of John's armchair and carefully draped it over Sherlock. He shifted in his sleep, but didn't wake.

Mrs Hudson went around the flat, clicking off the various lamps and lights. She was about to leave and close the door behind her when she heard Sherlock mutter, "I'm sorry, John."

Noiselessly, she walked back over to the sofa and saw that Sherlock's eyes were still closed.

"I don't want to be like this," the detective murmured.

"Shhh," Mrs Hudson hushed, gently rubbing Sherlock's shoulder until he fell quiet again. "You'll get better," she whispered. She gently kissed his forehead. "You always do. It just takes a little time."

When she was sure that Sherlock was deeply asleep again she quietly closed the living room door behind her, taking in one last deep breath of the sweet, warm, freshly baked smell of Christmas cake which filled the flat and reminded her of how much the three occupants off 221 Baker Street cared for one another.

_A/N: Thank you for reading, reviewing and following! _


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